


A Long Strange Story

by copperbadge



Category: White Collar
Genre: Art History, Art Theft, Episode Tag, Gen, Holocaust references, Nazis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stealing from the Illuminati can be problematic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Strange Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Neifile7 and tzikeh for betas!

_Eddie: Mr C? How the hell are you? How's Mr. F?_  
 _Mozzie: Good!_  
 _Peter: Mr. C and Mr. F?_  
 _Mozzie: Oh, there's a long, strange story attached to that._  
\-- 2.02, "Need To Know"

"The Illuminati," Neal said. "The actual Illuminati."

"It's more of a social club," Mozzie replied. "I mean, obviously they don't go around controlling the shadow government _anymore._ "

"You don't believe in the moon landing but you believe the Illuminati is a social club?" Neal asked.

"Well, I've met them. I've never been to the moon."

"That could be arranged," Kate murmured. Neal elbowed her, grinning.

"So what, they're like the Shriners or something?" Neal asked.

"More like the Masons, without all the architectural crap."

"Okay, so," Neal said, sitting back, tilting his head over the back of the couch to study the ceiling. Kate curled into his shoulder, kissing his neck. Neal could tell Mozzie was rolling his eyes. "Why are we interested in the, and I can't believe I'm saying this, Illuminati?"

"Think of them as the Masons with a secret, gigantic stash of gold and precious artwork hidden in a vault at their subterranean headquarters," Mozzie said.

This was how it worked: Mozzie did the research, Neal made the plans, Kate handled the logistics. It was a simple setup, and they'd run with it for almost a year under the nose of the FBI. But sometimes it meant Neal had to be focused and detail-oriented, which was hard to do on three glasses of wine and with his girlfriend snuggled up to him.

"Mozzie," Neal said.

"Yes, Neal," Mozzie sighed.

"Have you actually _seen_ the secret, gigantic stash of gold and precious artwork hidden in a vault at their subterranean headquarters?" Neal asked.

"I've seen the vault," Mozzie replied. "Trust me, there is no reason for a vault like that unless they're keeping something worth stealing in it. Custom-made, Cumberland 1892 with DeSalle mods."

"1996 mods?"

"1999," Mozzie replied.

"Never cracked a DeSalle mod before," Neal said thoughtfully, still staring at the ceiling. "How'd you get in?"

"I'm an initiate," Mozzie said proudly. "My 'late father' was the last Mr. C, or so they believe."

"Mr. C," Kate repeated.

"They go by letters, no names. Twenty-seven members."

"A, B, C, D," Neal sang softly. "I think there are only twenty-six letters, Mozzie. Last time I checked, anyway."

"That's where it gets interesting," Mozzie replied. "There are three slots open. Mr. C, that's the one I'll take once I'm a full member, and also Mr. F. And then there's the Letter Of God."

"Dear mortals," Kate began, and Neal snorted. "When I said smite the unbeliever -- "

"You mock, but it's an important position. The Letter of God is the only woman allowed into the organization."

"Hm. I begin to see my role in this," Kate remarked.

"If you two can get in as initiates, you can attend my membership ceremony. There's no guard on the vault during the ceremonies, just on the door. You get out, crack the safe, unload what you can -- "

"I need ground plans," Neal yawned.

"Not a problem."

"I'll find us a van," Kate added.

"Hey, wait a minute," Neal said, lifting his head. "Does that mean there's a Mr. T?"

"You are a slave to your pop culture brainwashing," Mozzie told him, but he was grinning as he stood. "I'll have the ground plans for you tomorrow evening. Make a plan, golden boy."

"Yessir, Mr. C," Neal threw a lazy salute. "Take some -- "

"Already got it," Mozzie called from the kitchen, brandishing a tupperware bowl with the remains of their filet mignon from dinner. He came back into the living room, kissed Kate's hand when she held it out, and left.

"You never kiss my hand," Kate said, when Mozzie was gone. "Maybe I'll dump you for Moz."

Neal grabbed her by the waist and pulled her across his lap, laughing. "No, I'll kiss the rest of you," he promised.

"Mm," she said. "We need a new safecracking kit, you know."

"Always thinking," Neal said affectionately.

"What do you need to break a Cumberland vault?" she asked, while Neal nuzzled the soft skin just behind her ear.

"Drill with a 25mm bit," he said into her skin. "Scope, sledgehammer -- "

"Sledgehammer!"

"Yeah, once you get the combination you gotta -- " he pulled her a little closer, " -- put the bit back in and snap it up into the bar to get the lift without a key."

"Oh, the lift," she murmured.

"That's the DeSalle mod," he told her. "Unless I can lift the key from someone."

"So. Van, handcart, cracking kit, gloves -- " she laughed a little as he hiked her skirt up, " -- tarp, storage, _oh_...fake IDs..."

"List tomorrow," Neal said. "Bedtime now."

"Beautiful kiddo," she answered, kissing him. "Okay. Bedtime now."

***

The plan didn't actually go as planned.

For one thing, Neal and Kate were supposed to slip to the back of the rotunda while Mozzie was being "initiated", and sneak out through one of the concealed doors that they weren't supposed to know about. (Neal privately thought that if he ever founded a secret society, he could do a way better job.) Then Kate was going to run for the van, use an access card she'd lifted from Mr. H (the current head of the illuminati) to get into the elevator topside, and send the equipment down. Neal would crack the safe while she held the elevator, and they'd load up what they could.

Multiple issues with this plan arose when Mr. H pushed Kate to the front of the audience so that the Letter of God (elect) could witness an initiation firsthand.

Neal caught Kate's eye and made a _stay there_ gesture, recalculating in his head the minutes and seconds lost working without a partner. They could always scrap the heist, but where was the fun in that?

He pushed through the crowd, kissed Kate's hand (slipping the card out of her palm) and then backed up again, waiting for the ceremony to start before casually picking the lock on the secret door and leaning through it into the corridor outside. He stepped out of his shoes -- squeaky on marble -- and ran down to the elevator, swiping the card, wincing at the beep it made.

He made it up to the van and back down with the equipment in what felt like hours but was only a few seconds longer than he'd estimated it would take with Kate. He had plenty of time to wheel the kit around the corner, past the pressure-plates in the center of the floor, and into the vault chamber.

They'd timed the crack so that Mozzie's dramatic but momentary collapse in the middle of the ceremony would distract the door guard long enough for Neal to get his work done. He knelt by the vault door, drill at the ready, until he heard the guard's shoes on the floor and the door slam. He had three minutes to crack the Cumberland.

Even so, everything was going fine...and then the janitor showed up.

Since when did secret societies even _have_ janitors? He wasn't on the books and nobody had mentioned him, and yet there he was with a mop and a wheelie bucket, staring at Neal.

"Hey," he said, looming terrifyingly. "What're you doin'?"

Neal looked at the safe, looked at the janitor, and took a gamble. "Robbing the Illuminati," he said.

"For real?" the janitor asked.

"Only if I can get the door cracked in less than three minutes," Neal said.

"Oh hey, lemme help you," the janitor replied. "I got a key."

Neal stared at him.

"What? How much you think is in there, couple of grand at least? You think I like mopping floors?" the guy asked. "You get the combination, I'll get the key lock, I take a cut."

"Thanks," Neal said, turning back to the drill.

"I'm Eddie," the janitor said, waiting for him to finish cracking the combination.

"They call me Mr. F," Neal replied.

"Oh, Mr. C's pal? Cool," Eddie said, as Neal broke through the steel and pulled the drill out, inserting the scope. Neal held his finger to his lips, working the combination wheel slowly. Finally, finally, he heard the tumblers pop. He turned, tossing Eddie a spare pair of gloves from his back pocket.

"Okay, key, c'mon," Neal told him, stepping back. Eddie fitted a large brass key into the DeSalle-modified lock and turned it. The door swung open.

"Couple of grand, sure," Neal said faintly. Gold gleamed at him from every corner of the vault, gold and the dark shine of old wood and the soft crisp fall of linen wrapped over paintings.

"Holy jeez," Eddie added.

"Okay, here's how we do this," Neal announced, ditching the cracking equipment to one side of the interior. "We load up everything for one run. If we take less than ten minutes, we can do a second run. We close the door, I ride up to the van, and I'm gonna be parked across the street waiting for Mr. C when he gets out. You finish your rounds, keep cool, and we'll pick you up before we leave."

"You're a fast thinker," Eddie said, already piling cash into a crate half-full of what looked like solid gold bars. Neal started hauling paintings out of their racks, not even bothering to look before he stood them carefully against the bars of the handcart.

"Oh hey, you like?" Eddie asked, holding up a necklace made of little interlocking gold plates.

"Man, my girlfriend will," Neal said, shoving it into the crate with the cash. "You sure you're up for this?"

"I work three jobs," Eddie said, by way of reply.

"Fair enough," Neal agreed.

***

"Jesus Christ, take your time," Neal said, when Mozzie and Kate finally appeared at the door of the van. "Get in the back, we should get out. Did they find the vault's been cracked yet?"

"Who the hell are you?" Kate demanded of Eddie, who was sitting in the passenger's seat.

"He's an accessory, _get in_ ," Neal hissed. Mozzie was already climbing into the back, moving crates and paintings aside so he could sit comfortably.

"Would you please stop making friends when we're on a job?" Kate asked, climbing in after Mozzie and hauling the door shut. "I need a breath mint. That punch we had after the ceremony was gross."

"Gum?" Eddie offered. Kate took it warily.

"Guys, this is Eddie," Neal said, as he pulled the van out into traffic. "He's the janitor."

"The Illuminati have a janitor?" Mozzie asked.

"Not anymore," Eddie told him with a grin.

"Hey, no, keep your cover," Neal said. "Get fired next week for sleeping on the job or something."

"You got it, Mr. F."

"Oh my God, this is a Cranach," Kate said from the back, lifting one of the wrappings and shining a light over the painting underneath.

"We got a Cranach?" Neal asked, pleased. "I didn't do an inventory."

"And a Snyders..." Kate said, voice falling slightly. "And this one's a Murillo..."

"Wait a minute," Mozzie said.

"Aw, fuck," Neal sighed.

"What?" Eddie asked.

"Which Murillo is it?" Mozzie asked.

"It's one of the missing saints," Kate said, her voice hushed.

"So?" Eddie asked. "Painting of a saint? My ma's got one of those over the kitchen sink."

"I'll take a look when we get it all in storage," Neal said, glancing in the rear-view mirror as Kate and Mozzie conferred in the back seat. "No conclusions until then, okay?"

"But -- "

"No!" Neal barked, cutting Mozzie off mid-protest. "Let's just all take a deep breath and get everything safe before we start."

They had almost reached the storage facility where they were going to stash the haul -- scummy, dimly lit, but climate controlled with exterior access, really the perfect safe box -- when Neal spotted two guys in a parked car across the street from the access gate.

"Eddie, I'm gonna slow down," Neal said. "You get a look at the guys in the car on the right. You're looking for a guy with dark hair, in a business suit, who looks like a fed. He's probably eating a sandwich."

"The fed _again?_ " Mozzie asked.

"Yep, he's a cop," Eddie said, as the van slid past the unmarked car. "He's got that look, you know."

"Yeah, I do," Neal sighed. "Goddamn _Burke._ "

"He's really hard to shake," Mozzie observed.

"How did he know?" Neal asked.

"What alias did you use?" Kate said.

"Boyd Marten. Does he know about Boyd Marten?" Neal wondered.

"Guess he does," Mozzie said. "What do we do?"

"It's cool, we'll find somewhere to park for the night," Neal decided. Eddie cleared his throat. "Eddie, twenty-five percent of whatever we keep is yours. Do you have a contribution for the class?"

"I work at a warehouse in Queens," Eddie said. "Got keys and stuff. Who's gonna notice one storage crate off the books, you know what I mean?"

"I take it back," Kate said, leaning over Neal's shoulder and smiling at Eddie. "This kind of friend, you can make anytime you like."

"Yeah, sit tight, Letter Of God," Neal told her. "Eddie, show me the way."

***

They loaded the cash, the gold, and some very nice antiques into the storage crate, once they arrived, and then Neal lined up the fifteen paintings they'd stolen. He started at one end and Mozzie started at the other, examining each one in detail. Neal took two out and set them aside, announcing, "Forgeries," and Mozzie added one more to that pile. Of the twelve remaining, Neal pulled out two and put them in the storage crate.

"These are plundered," he announced finally, crossing his arms and glaring at the ten paintings left.

"Yeah?" Eddie asked, squinting at them. "But you guys kinda steal for a living, am I right?"

"There's stealing, and then there's looting," Mozzie said. "We can't keep them."

"I know, I know," Neal moaned.

"They're all registered with the IFAR," Kate told Eddie.

"What's that in English?" Eddie asked.

"They keep a list of plundered art," Kate said. She was very pale, hand over her mouth. Neal picked up the Cranach and turned it around. On the back of the frame was a small red stamp in the shape of a swastika, above a handwritten serial number.

"It's Nazi spoils," Neal said. "We just stole ten paintings the Nazis plundered during the war."

"Holy shit," Eddie said.

"Yeah. Pros don't loot," Mozzie answered. "We earn what we steal by the sweat of our brow."

"We don't loot from the Holocaust, anyway," Neal said. "I feel like I should disinfect myself."

"What do we do with them?" Kate asked. Neal chewed on a thumbnail, thinking.

"Okay," he said finally. "Here's the plan. Eddie gets his cut now. Mo -- Mr. C, split everything up, give Eddie his share in cash. We stash the rest until things cool off. You, Letter of God," he said, pulling Kate close and stroking her hair reassuringly, "Take Eddie wherever he needs to be and get Mr. C home. I'm gonna get the paintings out of here. I'll make sure they get found."

"How?" Kate asked.

Neal grinned. "Goddamn Burke," he said.

***

"Agent Burke?"

Peter looked up from his latest fruitless report on Caffrey, into the round, open face of Collings, the newest departmental probie.

"Yeah, what is it?" he asked tiredly. He'd done a pointless all-night stakeout followed by a full shift, and he hadn't seen El since Sunday. All he really wanted was to put his head down on his desk and take a nap.

"Got a caller on the line says he wants to make an anonymous tip."

"So? Take the tip."

"Says he's only gonna speak to you," Collings insisted.

"Fine," Peter said, picking up the phone and punching the switchboard line. "Agent Burke."

"You deal in stolen art?" the man asked on the other end of the line. Young, Peter guessed; Irish accent, or a very good fake.

"Yeah," Peter said. "I'm told you have a tip for us?"

"A crate was just delivered to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's loading dock, care of Peter Burke. You should look into that," the voice said, and hung up. Peter stared at the phone.

"I gotta go check this out," he said to Collings, pulling on his coat. "Call the NYPD, have a bomb squad meet me at the Met."

"The Met?" Collings asked.

"Just do it!" Peter called, already getting into an elevator.

Once the bomb squad cleared the large wooden crate sitting on the Met's loading dock -- while police scrambled around trying to find out who had left it there and who had paid them to do it -- Peter took a crowbar from one of the art handlers and studied the crate cautiously. About half the Met's staff had gathered at the far end of the dock, curious and chatting to each other about what it could be.

Well, no easy way around it. He held his breath as he pried the front off the crate.

The mid-afternoon light fell in a shaft across the interior, and Peter grasped a sheet of white linen, pulling it away from the object it was protecting. A gorgeous cityscape lay underneath, the blue water of the city harbor gleaming in the sun.

"Dutch Master," Peter murmured, ducking into the crate and crouching in front of it. "Hey!" he yelled at the staff. "This look like a Vermeer to anyone else?"

"Oh, wow," a young woman said, coming forward. Peter grasped the frame and carried it carefully out of the crate. "That's -- it's the _View Of Delft._ It's been missing for sixty years. Somebody call the Art Loss Registry!" she called over her shoulder.

Peter stepped back into the crate and counted -- nine more frames wrapped in white linen. The young woman who'd identified the painting joined him.

"These are stolen," she whispered, as he began handing them carefully out to the staff on the dock. "They're all stolen."

"No kiddin'," he replied.

"No, Agent Burke -- I don't think you understand," she said, and pointed to the back of a frame, where a little red swastika was stamped above a scrawled serial number. "Where did you find these?"

Peter looked at her. "Anonymous tip," he said, with a totally straight face.

***

Things changed.

Neal had almost forgotten about that job; he was a felon now, but also a federal consultant, and he had bigger fish to fry. Peter was no longer _Goddamn Burke_ but just Peter, a respected friend, someone to trust. Kate was...Kate was gone.

Really only Mozzie was unchanging, which was actually something to think about.

"So last night," Peter said, over burgers and beer at a downtown diner to celebrate the end of the Jennings case, "I ended up in a warehouse reading the New York Journal Magazine supplement while some guy named Eddie helped Mozzie get into a storage crate."

"The ways of Moz are strange," Neal said. Elizabeth, across the table, laughed.

"And he called Mozzie 'Mr. C'," Peter continued. "Am I right in assuming you're Mr. F?"

"Allegedly," Neal answered.

"Uh-huh. So I ask Mozzie, Mr. C? And he says, 'there's a long, strange story attached to that'." Peter looked at Neal expectantly.

"Yeah, I guess it is," Neal said thoughtfully.

"Come on, Neal," Elizabeth urged. "You can tell us. Peter'll give you immunity, won't you, honey?"

"Let's just keep it theoretical," Peter said, looking like he wanted to be annoyed but couldn't, because it was El. "If you did know a long strange story, concerning a storage crate in a warehouse in Queens, what would it be?"

"Theoretically?" Neal asked. "Would you believe it involved getting a janitor to help me steal Nazi loot from the Illuminati?"

"You are so full of bullshit your eyes should be brown," Peter laughed, but a thought obviously occurred to him even as he leaned back and sipped his beer.

"I never lie about the Illuminati," Neal assured him.

"Nazi loot, huh, Indiana Jones?" Peter asked. "Loot like paintings?"

"Yeah. Maybe even a Vermeer," Neal said cautiously, sensing he was wading into uneven waters.

"Honey," Elizabeth said, "didn't you get that letter of commendation for finding some looted paintings?"

"Yeah," Peter agreed, still looking at Neal. "Some joker left a package for me with the Met."

Elizabeth looked at Neal too; Peter was staring so hard Neal felt a little transparent.

"Hey, this looks like a really good hamburger," Neal said, leaning forward. "So I'm gonna eat this and not talk anymore."

"Illuminati, huh?" Peter asked. Neal gestured to his mouthful of food. "Yeah, okay, hot shot. Eat up."

"What he means is, it was a very pretty Vermeer," Elizabeth said in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, while Neal swallowed to hide a pleased grin. "And also, thank you."

"Good deeds are their own reward," Neal replied virtuously, and Peter almost choked on his beer.

**Author's Note:**

> This whole story is basically me bullshitting. Nothing about the Illuminati or the vault-cracking is at all accurate or researched. The names of the looted artists in the latter half _were_ researched, but they are all artists whose work has already been recovered. Or, in Vermeer's case, whose work was never looted in the first place. I just like Vermeer. And the word "Delft".
> 
> References:  
>  **[View Of Delft](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a2/Vermeer-view-of-delft.jpg)** , Johannes Vermeer, 1660-1661.  
>  **[Still Life With Fruit And Game](http://www.nga.gov/resources/snydersfs.shtm)** , Frans Snyders, 1615-1620 ( **[Nazi plunder](http://www.nytimes.com/2000/11/21/arts/21PAIN.html)** )  
>  **[Adam](http://www.nortonsimon.org/collections/art.php?id=M.1971.1.P&title=Adam)** and **[Eve](http://www.nortonsimon.org/collections/art.php?id=M.1991.1.P&title=Eve)** by Lucas Cranach the Elder, c. 1530 ( **[Nazi plunder](http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/culturemonster/2010/01/legal-precedent-set-as-woman-trying-to-win-nazilooted-paintings-from-norton-simon-museum-loses-appea.html)** )  
>  **[Santa Justa](http://smu.edu/meadowsmuseum/collections_Murillo_Justa.htm)** by Bartolome Esteban Murillo, c. 1665 ( **[Nazi plunder](http://www.artdaily.com/index.asp?int_sec=2&int_new=38077)** )


End file.
